“Congratulations, Kingsley. You’re the new striker on our intermural church league team.”

“Were you this weird back in high school?” Kingsley asked. “Or is this a side effect of prolonged celibacy?”

“You can’t say no. We’ve already ordered your T-shirt.”

“Definitely weirder since high school.”

“The wisest thing my confessor ever told me was that I could be a priest and have fun.”

“Church league soccer is your definition of fun?”

“It is when you win. But First Presbyterian slaughtered us last week. We lost four to one.”

“Aren’t Presbyterians Calvinists?” Kingsley asked. Søren hated Calvinism.

“Now you know why I need you to help me destroy them.”

“If I help you destroy the Presbyterians, what do I get in return?”

“My gratitude?”

Kingsley stayed silent.

“My eternal gratitude?” Søren upped his offer.

Kingsley still said nothing.

“A night with Eleanor once she’s old enough?”

Kingsley narrowed his eyes at Søren and stroked his chin while considering the offer.

“You and her both? My bedroom?”

Søren paused.

“If you’re clean,” Søren finally said, “and if you behave, don’t get yourself killed between now and then, and if she’s amenable to the idea.”

“Agreed,” Kingsley said.

“Then it’s a deal.”

Kingsley took the soccer ball out of Søren’s hands.

“First Presbyterian will never know what hit them,” Kingsley said. Side by side they ran on to the field, and in short order, Kingsley had taken command of the team. The team assumed, rightly, that being European, Kingsley could play better than they could, and they willingly followed his direction. The younger players especially were in awe. For a perfect two hours Kingsley didn’t think once of his impending test results, not once about Robert Dixon’s tape, not once about taking out Fuller’s church.

And not once did he think of Søren as anything other than an annoyingly good player on his team.

When practice ended, they walked back to the church sweaty and tired. But it was a good sweaty, a good tired.

“Admit it, you had fun,” Søren said. “Fun that didn’t involve sex, drugs, or blackmailing and/or bribing a district attorney.”

“I don’t bribe DAs for fun. That was a favor to you.”

“And I appreciate it. So does Eleanor, even if she doesn’t know what you did on her behalf.”

“She’ll make it up to me someday,” Kingsley said, attempting to goad Søren and succeeding.

“I said if she’s amendable to the idea. She might not be.”

“You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“I admit it’s unlikely.”

“You know,” Kingsley said, taking his keys out of his pocket. “I would have joined the team without you giving me a night with your girl.”

Søren smiled and turned away, heading to his church. In French he called back.

“I would have given you a night with her without you joining the team.”

Kingsley laughed. Maybe there was hope for that priest yet.

19

“DO YOU WANT a straight pin through your future children?”

“No.” Kingsley sighed.

“Then, young man, I’d suggest you hold still.”

“I am holding still,” Kingsley said, rolling his eyes. First Magdalena, and then Signore Vitale. Kingsley decided he had more than fulfilled his quota for suffering the abuses of irascible Italians for the century.

“Hold more still,” the little white-haired man at his feet said.

“King,” Sam said, tapping her foot in annoyance. “Hold the fuck still.”

“When I have a man on his feet in front of me, it’s usually considered an insult if I hold still,” Kingsley said.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You aren’t my type.” The tailor, Signore Vitale, looked up from the floor.

“Are you straight?” Kingsley asked. He was everyone’s type. Except Sam’s.

“No, but you are French.”

“Italians...” Kingsley shook his head. “Look, I’m no fan of Napoleon, either. But it was a hundred-and-ninety years ago.”

“Italians have long memories.”

Kingsley forced himself to stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking.

“Better,” Signore Vitale said. “Much better. Soon we’ll have you looking like a new you.”

“I thought the old me looked good.”

“You dress like a gay hobo,” Signore Vitale said.

“That’s not true,” Sam said, coming to Kingsley’s defense.

“Merci,” Kingsley said.

“He dresses like a bisexual hobo.”

Kingsley glared at her.

“For the record, I consider myself pansexual.”

“Does that mean you like to fuck cookware?”

“It means I like to fuck everything.”

“Typical francese.” Vitale sighed.

“Am I paying for these insults to my heritage?” Kingsley asked.

“Yes,” Vitale said. “Five percent surcharge for French clients.”

“Make it two-and-a-half percent. I’m only half French.”